Circus of Silence

A Clean Slate

~*~

Your shoes become lead

on the sky, you lose your tread

the landing doesn't hurt

~*~

               The glass stars spun as the drumbeat song of Rosalind Maybrush's heart steadied. As they caught the sun and focused a thousand pinpricks of light on the cast of the Witch's attention. Strongman. Harrison. Whisper. Stripes. Stripes. Her breath left in a gust of wind, warm like the Georgian summer. She had truly become a master hummer. Stripes was sitting, pale, speckled skin and little bones, in the groomed green grass.

Rosalind squealed, unable to voice the joy that she felt.

She couldn't believe the luck she'd been dealt.

The boy's tiny hands were perfectly formed, along with his slight shape and unruly hair that curled to his nape. His expression was slightly startled, but that was to be expected. It had taken fifty years for la beau bête's form to be ejected. He didn't test his new fingers or toes. He didn't lick his human teeth or rub his round, golden eyes. He just stared, lips slightly parted, at Rosalind. A midwinter's blush crept into his cheeks. Rosalind beamed.

"Aww... what a handsome little boo. But whatever are we to call you?" she fawned, pinching his freckled face, "Surely Stripes won't do." She bopped the end of his nose. "I'd be more inclined to call you spots! Oh! You're so adorable, I can't stand-" The boy just blinked at her, aghast.

"Rosalind," chided the scornful voice of Harrison Wallis. She felt his steady hands on her shoulders. Tugging her back. Tugging her away.

"But-"

He shook her gently, his lips near her ear. "You should give them some time, Miss Maybrush. This is all a little much..." For Stripes. And for Whisper. Understanding far too late, Rosalind rotated, looking back over her shoulder at the Silent-Girl.

Whisper was still. Pallid as the petal of a lily under the influence of winter's first snow. Had her chest not been rising and falling feebly, Rosalind would have worried. Zombie indeed. Whisper was more of a willowy wisp of a wraith. A ghost. A phantom. A shell with a heart that beat its wings like a bantam.

"Oh," said Rosalind, willing herself up. Rosalind retreated to Harrison's side. Circus Second, the carnies had cried. The Witch's new Shula, even though it was she who sang such sinister songs. She trusted Harrison, even if he did not in return. Knowing that he heard her every thought, that truth was a rather offensive burn. Harrison gave her an apologetic look and started to lead her away.

"Come on," he tried, his voice remarkably soft, "let's go find your father." Algernon Maybrush, a man hidden in plain sight. Fixing him up would be quite the fight. The thought sent a jolt through her system and Rosalind whirled around, whipping Harrison's shins with the lace trim of her gown.

Whisper took one step forward. Then two. Then several more before she threw herself down onto her knees and grabbed her brother's hands and arms and shoulders until her hands found his face. A silent gasp. Her eyes were wide as saucers. The more the girl gaped, the bigger the boy's smile grew.

His laughter was a miraculous sound, but not one that was long lived. The childish chuckling quickly transformed into tears. Tears of relief, and for fifty years lost. God, thought Rosalind with a frown, immortality comes with a terrible cost.

She walked past the reunited siblings and made her way back to the Carousel, calling the strongman forward to assist her in turning Whisper's mare around. The song for curing Whisper was nowhere to be found. Still, the witchling tried to bring the horse to life. Though the failure made her weary, it further confirmed her theory. "I'm sorry," she said solemnly. "I'm sorry."